


Protect And Control

by Aubergion



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aubergion/pseuds/Aubergion
Summary: The Inquisition's forces aren't the only ones interested in saving the world. And just because someone else is sealing rifts doesn't mean they're on the Inquisition's side.A series of war table missions, from the perspective of those in the field.





	Protect And Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BecauseDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BecauseDawn/gifts).



> Prompted by BecauseDawn/@becausedragonage on tumblr: a red flower/tension/protect and control.

**0\. Inquisition. Storm Coast, Kingsway 9:41 Dragon**

Lace spots them during her first survey of the Storm Coast. A trio of people out in hip-deep water thick with blood lotuses. Smack under a rift. Big warrior with a sword and shield, two smaller figures circling around and behind, all of them yelling at each other and tripping on roots, and a whole mess of wraiths and terrors swarming about to cap it off. More Mages’ Collective idiots trying to get themselves killed, no doubt. Back up and move on, mark it for the Herald to sort out later. Only, as she’s turning away, one of the little ones whips out something from under her cloak that looks like a tripod and sinks it most of the way into the muck below. The rift reacts instantly, the crystalline structure that seems to plug most of them rending open. Shards fly everywhere. One embeds itself in a tree a few feet above her head. Lace flattens herself into the damp undergrowth, signaling for the scouts behind her to do the same, and pulls out her spyglass.

Between the pouring rain, the murky water, and the big sword-swinging lady - a human, with dark brown skin and equally dark braided hair - who keeps standing between her and Tripod, she can’t make out a lot. They’re all wearing armor, cuirass and tassets at least, expensive-looking stuff that shines under the rift’s greenish light. Bit much, for the Mages’ Collective. Tripod’s crouched down now, submerged up to her armpits and doing something fiddly with the device underwater. Thin threads of magic connect little prongs on the top of the device with the rift. Every so often, the threads flash and the rift splutters and spits out another handful of wraiths. They’re insane. It’s the only explanation.

Well, they should be insane, what with the endless waves of demons. But they’re doing pretty well. The big one slams her shield into a terror and follows it up with a slash to the spine that cuts it in two. The other little one shoots three arrows into three wraiths each, which shriek and dissipate. She’s so focused on the fighting, she nearly misses it when the rift flares again and then - seals shut. What the fuck. There’s still at least four demons around. That shouldn’t be possible. Though the remaining ones go down very quickly. Tripod stands up out of the muck and pulls the device free. Even from here Lace can hear the complaining about how she’s “fucking freezing, I hate West Hill, I think I’ve got a newt down my -” as the three of them set off. She has an accent, possibly Antivan.

Now she really needs to get back to camp to write her report. The Seeker and her people have got to know about this.

* * *

**1\. Forces. Bannorn of West Hill, Harvestmere 9:41 Dragon**

_“Is there any reason we cannot simply take this device? I will send two squads of soldiers. We can have our people examine it once it is recovered.“_

Rozellene isn’t fazed by the Mages’ Collective. Fools and spellbinders. Some ally with the rebel mages, the ones who refuse to stop fighting. A lot are just refugees, same as the rest. And then there’s the ones like this trio she’s hunting, the ones who she’s more likely than not to find as a small pile of rags near a rift. She’s got fifteen Inquisition soldiers with her. Should be plenty to deal with… what, a mage and two hired swords? Scout Harding’s description left much to be desired. It didn’t matter. She’d get the job done.

On the fifth day, Thornton manages to track the strange group down. Two elves, one older with graying auburn hair, one younger with tattoos round her eyes, and a human warrior with a canvas-covered kite shield. All well-armored and well-armed, as per the description. None of them look very magical at all. Regardless, they’re setting up camp over a ridge near the Imperial Highway. It should be a simple operation. Point formation, driving them off from the camp, hit and run. Well, it would be run, but the warrior doesn’t run when they charge over the ridge, just snatches her shield from the ground and slams it into Roz’s face so hard she goes flying backwards into Terrence in a great clatter of mail. Arrows fly over her head left and right, and she can hear the screaming as they hit their marks. Jim’s diving for the device, left alone on the ground, but he barely gets three steps away before the tattooed elf snatches it from his grip. Roz can’t make out what he’s saying over the ringing in her ears, but the elf shouts something that sounds a lot like like “have you never heard of copyright?” before she slams the spiked butt of it into his skull. He drops like a stone. A grenade of something flies over Roz's head and explodes into a cloud of pinkish mist that makes her eyes water and throat seize. Rashvine bomb. Shit.

Roz tries to scramble to her feet, gasping for breath, and comes face to face with an arrow nocked and pointing between her eyes before she can do more than shove Terrence out from under her. This close, she can see the archer is a weathered-looking elven woman, with gleaming amber eyes and thin strands of silver in her hair to match her breastplate. There’s an insignia engraved in it she doesn’t recognize. “You have one chance to spit out exactly what you’re doing here before I put an arrow through your skull, Inquisition,“ she snaps.

“We’re - we’re here for your rift-sealing - device.” Roz says thickly, through the blood streaming from her nose. She’s fairly sure it’s broken – it hurts like shit. The archer’s amber eyes narrow, fingers tensing on the bowstring. “Under orders! From Commander Rutherford. And – and the Herald of Andraste?” She might be stretching that one, but it’s all she’s got.

The arrow flicks to the side and goes flying a hair’s breadth past her head. Maker. If it’d been an inch to the left, she’d be down an eyeball. “Go back to your commanders,” the archer says. “Tell them if they try to steal from the Silver Order again, we’re sending their people back in pieces.”

Roz’s mind whirls in sudden realization. The Silver Order. Amaranthine. The Hero of Ferelden.  _Shit_.

* * *

**2\. Connections. Bannorn of Rosewold, Haring 9:41 Dragon**

_“You say they are of Amaranthine’s Silver Order? Then they answer to its Warden-Commander. We could use this opportunity to find out more about what has happened to the Wardens.“_

Flanagan’s palms are sweating despite the winter chill. He’d only joined the Inquisition a few weeks ago. His mother’s only a lady, not even really a bann. He wanted to make a difference, that’s all. He thought he’d be bringing the word of Andraste’s Herald to the people, maybe speaking in the halls of minor nobles. Not dealing with the Silver Order. The elite order of Amaranthine. All but equals to the Grey Wardens and answering directly to the Hero himself. Flanagan had been raised on stories of the Battle of Denerim. His mother fought in it, when he was just a lad. He can’t stop thinking about it. He might be laying it on a bit thick. The three women across from him don’t look at all impressed. The tattooed elf - Shreya, he remembers - is picking her teeth with a wickedly curved dagger that matches the crescent tattoos around her eyes. Ser Madeleine’s drumming her fingers on the rim of her shield.

“-As I was saying, your Order is the last potential lead we have to find the Wardens. Now that this Corypheus has revealed himself, their aid is required more than ever. Warden-Commander Surana in particular.” Flanagan spreads his hands, trying to be friendly and welcoming. “After all he’s done - an alliance between the Inquisition and the Wardens-”

Shreya flips her dagger over and stabs it between his fingers, point sticking into the tavern table between them. Flanagan freezes in mid-motion. “We are not Wardens,” she says, very slowly. As though she’s talking to a child. She has an Antivan accent. There’d been a Crow that fought with the Hero, hadn’t there? Not this woman, surely? “We don’t know where the Commander is. We’re here to seal the rifts. That is all.”

Flanagan scrambles. Common ground, Ambassador Montilyet had said. Common ground. “An alliance between the Inquisition and the Silver Order, then. Our causes align. We both seek nothing more than to bring peace -”

“Yes,“ Their leader, Ser Enith, fixes him with a baleful amber glare. The other elf is about the size of his grandmother. She looks like she eats wolves for breakfast. “Because Redcliffe and West Hills are crawling with Inquisition foot soldiers out of the goodness of your heart. We have orders, and they don’t include striking deals with a lordling offering us coppers for the trouble.”

Flanagan can’t help himself. “Orders from who?”

“The Warden-Commander.”

“But - but I thought you said you didn’t know where he is?“

“We don’t.”

* * *

  **3\. Secrets. Vigil’s Keep, Wintermarch 9:42 Dragon.**

_“I knew the Warden-Commander during the Fifth Blight. They are hardly unreasonable. I could simply ask for one of those devices.”_

Leliana is distantly aware that Tamaris is a maleficar. She had heard testament of their abilities from their shared allies during the Blight, and swirling rumors from Amaranthine that she’s, up until now, largely discarded. Seeing their image bloom from an elaborate phylactery is making her reassess some of those claims. It’s an unnervingly realistic illusion, much more than she expected from this invitation to the Keep. If not for the slight transparency, the way the shadows framing them don’t quite match the torches on the wall, she might think they were in the room with her. She notes the dark circles under their blue eyes, a smear of silt on their boots, seams on their brigandine that don’t quite match the cloth. But there are rings glittering on their fingers still, their dark hair is tied back, their posture formal enough to match any noble that had been at the Winter Palace. Tired, then, working, but not so exhausted as to not care at all about appearances. The room she’s in is mostly empty. There’s a dusty desk in the middle, where the phylactery rests near a vase of wilted poppies, and a chair in the corner, where Tamaris’ seneschal is at least, studiously pretending to read a serial. A pretense of privacy, balanced with what is presumably the need to prevent her from actually stealing the phylactery. Leliana has half a mind to try anyway.

“Leliana. Your Inquisition’s been busy,“ they say. “I keep hearing the most fascinating reports. Have you truly taken Caer Bronach?”

Leliana folds her arms. She's been here for five minutes and this is already going somewhere she doesn’t like. She remembers, belatedly, why she hasn't spoken with Tamaris much in recent years. “It’s been empty since the Blight. Most of our people are in Skyhold, but we can’t just abandon our work in the Hinterlands.”

“And I can imagine an increased foothold in the bannorn is hardly a disadvantage for your forces.” Their eyes sweep over her - she’s not sure if they can actually see her, but just in case, she keeps her expression blank. ”You know you tempt the ire of the Landsmeet. Or will, as soon as your claims of secondhand divinity grow stale.”

“And I have your ire now, no? We are bringing order to southern Thedas. That is more than most could say.”

“A Chantry-led army arises on Ferelden’s doorstep on the self-same day the Mage-Templar War was supposed to end, in lieu of ending it, then goes around laying claim to most of the southwest in the wake of the chaos? That is cause enough for anyone to be concerned, at the very least.”

“If you are so concerned, you could come back from wherever you are and help,” Leliana snaps. Tamaris is already opening their mouth to respond, so she charges forth before they can make their excuses, before she can be tempted to believe them. “I have met with Loghain. He told us what is happening to the Wardens. Tamaris - you could be dying.” She can feel herself choking up at the thought and lets it happen. A bard’s trick, all better for being sincere. “When I asked you to lead the Inquisition, is this why you refused me? I thought we were friends. I thought we could trust each other. Instead of saying something is wrong, you hide away and send your people to fight for petty border disputes?“ They duck their head. Only a moment, but she knows she has them.

“If you cannot trust the Inquisition, trust me,“ she says. “Let our people work together, to stop the threats that plague both of us. Just like old times, yes?”

They laugh, weakly. It cannot be simply her imagination that their eyes look brighter. “Something like that.“

* * *

**4\. Skyhold, Wintersend 9:42 Dragon.**

A dozen flowers from the Fallow Mire. White petals, red at the center, grows on decaying logs. A badly crumpled, yellowing sketch included with her orders helpfully indicates what a log might look like, and a box from the Undercroft is supposed to keep them fresh. Alright. Lace has gotten weirder orders, particularly from Sister Leliana.

A twanging sound next to her makes her look up. Someone’s dropped a pile of sticks next to her - no, it’s a pair of long contraptions that look like someone flayed a lute, with a metal-pronged top and a pair of strings held taut with pegs running down each of the three lacquered wooden legs. She looks up farther and sees the tall human from the swamp leaning over her with a broad grin, bright against deep brown skin. Same too-fancy breastplate, but over it, she wears a cowl of faded Inquisition green. “Nice castle,” she says. “Ser Madeleine Fuller. Silver Order. I was told you would know where to take these?”

There’s a moment where Lace feels like she’s swallowed her tongue. “Right. You can take those to the Undercroft. Dagna will know what to do with them. Probably. I’m Scout Lace Harding. Welcome to the Inquisition."

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly inspired by the thought that, well, the First in the Blackmarsh also has a glowy green thing that throws people into the Fade, and Justice teaches the Warden-Commander how to seal rifts afterward, so why should the Inquisitor have all the fun ten years down the road?


End file.
